Page:The Old Countess (1927).pdf/363

 Madame de Lamouderie made no reply. She continued to stare at him, with her mouth twisted to one side.

'Where is she? I've come to find her,' said Graham.

Madame de Lamouderie had evidently been exposed to the elements for a considerable time. The black laces of her hat-brim were beaten down about her neck. Rain streamed from her arms and shoulders; it seemed to pass through her, and her skirts were deep in mud and clung closely to her knees.

She made an effort to speak at last; but only a croaking sound issued from her throat.

'Why are you out here in this storm? What's brought you out?' Graham demanded, mastering his mounting fury.

'I have come to look for her,' said the old lady in a dry, rattling voice.

'Come to look for her! When did you miss her, then? You must have gone before she did.'

The old lady shook her head. 'No; no;—you are mistaken. You do not understand. It was when I did not find her that I came to look. She is nowhere to be found. Nowhere,' said the old lady, gazing all round her and then back at him with gaunt eyes.

Graham stood there, piercing her with his menacing stare.

'I want her,' the old lady went on, and her voice now found the tremolo of pathos and ill-usage. 'I cannot live when she is not beside me. She is the one person in the world who cares for me.'